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Did other—normal—people feel this way, as if they didn’t know up from down or in from out?
Had she gained a heart only to lose her mind?
She might ask her therapist, if ever she garnered the courage to leave the farm.
“You look ridiculous, by the way,” Pearl Jean said, mist puffing in front of her face. The woman was a truth teller, no matter what.
“Me?” Cookie took a sip of her steaming coffee...inside a wineglass, because dish day was tomorrow...then readjusted the ginormous sunglass perched on her nose. “I look ridiculous?”
“Yes, you.”
“I’m wearing clothes you knitted for me.” She spread her arms to show off the sweater and scarf Pearl Jean had given her last Christmas, paired with a T-shirt that read “Stay-at-Home Cat Mom,” black yoga pants, and fuzzy house boots with rubber soles. Only the world’s greatest attire. Well, that and Daisy Dukes paired with cowboy boots, her gonna-snag-a-good-time outfit. Oh, and also the gowns she sometimes donned for cosplay. Those rocked, too.
“I thought you’d be smart enough to bury the sweater and scarf in a drawer,” her friend said.
“What can I say? Comfort and warmth trump style, every time.” Undergarment-wise, she’d gone with a minimizing sports bra and her favorite granny panties. The must-haves for every woman’s lingerie drawer. This was a hill she would die on.
Except, lately she’d been eyeing sexy lingerie online with great interest, wondering how the silky material might feel against her skin and how a boyfriend might react. Even though she didn’t have a boyfriend, or even want one. Guys required work, and they always bailed.
There was a higher likelihood she’d get a tattoo. Her first and another recent desire. Sometimes she imagined strands of ivy etched in rich hues of green around her wrists, stretching over her hands and fingers.
“And the Cheetos in your hair?” Pearl Jean asked. “Is that part of your style?”
Locks of hair fell from her sloppy bun as she skirted around a plant, avoiding contact in case something freaky happened. Sometimes, with a brush of her skin, flowers instantly bloomed. But she wasn’t going to think about that. New panic would rise.
“Just so you know, you look ridiculous, too,” she said with a snippy tone.
“Please. Your Pearl Jeanlousy is showing.” Despite the chill, she sipped iced sweet tea from a squeeze bottle. Because “the hot stuff sucks” and “sometimes a girl needs to forget she might be coming down with diabetes.” A big yellow beach hat topped her silver curls, shielding two sunspots she believed looked more suspicious today than yesterday. As usual, a muumuu and bathrobe draped her plump frame. “I’ve always thought of myself as a good single malt. Better with age and able to knock anyone flat on their face.”
“I absolutely agree you’re a good single malt—older than time. Fingers crossed I’ll get to see you served on ice.”
Pearl Jean snorted. “Morbid brat.”
“Old crone.”
Sugars turned his attention to a bug, chasing it—No. Sorry. He ate the bug. How nice.
The scent of mesquite wafted through the air. Mr. Benson must have fired up his grill. She breathed deep without the aid of an oxygen tank. A truly wonderful experience, until her belly twisted with hunger. Ugh. She needed breakfast. Correction: she needed fourth breakfast. Since waking in the hospital with tubes everywhere, she’d experienced bottomless pit hunger without gaining a pound.
In an effort to clog said pit, Cookie had consumed her weight in powdered donuts, the aforementioned Cheetos, and mint chip cookies earlier. Guess she’d have to keep trying.
Two butterflies fluttered past and—Whoa! They did not have human faces. Did they?
The mutant insects circled back, coming closer, and Cookie sucked in a breath. They did! Their very human-looking mouths moved as if speaking, but she detected no sounds. When she panicked and waved her hand through the air, her fingers disrupted their images.
They’d been nothing but mist?
Her stomach roiled. What did that mean? Was she asleep or insane?
She chanced a glimpse at Pearl Jean. “Did you see the butterflies?”
The other woman wrinkled her brow. “What butterflies?”
Maybe Cookie should start taking her medication again? “Never mind,” she muttered.
“No, not never mind.” Her friend jerked the wheel of her scooter to avoid a rock. “I’ve been noticing some strange happenings around here, and I think we should discuss them.”
Uh-oh. Pearl Jean must want answers about Cookie’s more personal changes. Not ready. She shrank into herself, as if becoming a smaller visual target might stop the conversation mid-track. “Let’s agree that unusual things have been happening and leave it at that, okay? Please?”
“Save your pleas. This is not okay. You recovered from major surgery in a matter of weeks.” The words spewed from Pearl Jean. “You don’t even have a scar. Six months ago, your sable hair reached your shoulders. Now half the strands are pink and they reach the middle of your back. A length you’ve grown twice! Yes, I know you shaved your head the other day. Before, your eyes were gunmetal gray. Now, they’re green with only specks of gray, and plants miraculously flourish in your presence. So? What’s going on?”
